


Unsolved Mysteries

by sadistically_sweet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Babysitting, Bickering, Diapers, Fluff, Greg has a potty mouth, Harsh Language, Infantilism, M/M, Nonsexual Ageplay, Platonic Cuddling, Sherlock's a cute little shit, Tears, baby bottles, brief mention of spanking, lots and lots and lots of tears, nappies, stuffed bees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6114497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best thing about babysitting, is when they go home afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsolved Mysteries

**Author's Note:**

> This short one-shot was HEAVILY inspired by a wickedly wonderful rp with squeakpigsrevenge on tumblr, aka Embalmer56 here! Go read her stories; they are FABULOUS! 
> 
>  
> 
> **Unsolved Mysteries was a real show, and one of my favorites back in the early 90's! I spent many an afternoon after school watching rerun after rerun after rerun, until I had every chord of that synthesized theme memorized. :p
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EUd0VvlhY7k&index=4&list=LLbOHkPBigTb-UR5b2PJbdzQ  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5h2x3G40to&index=6&list=LLbOHkPBigTb-UR5b2PJbdzQ
> 
> Seems like the perfect sort of thing a certain fussy detective might want to watch, no? ;)
> 
> **Edited to correct a few errors and a missing paragraph.

 

 

At 2:16 am on a Tuesday night...er, morning...( _whatever_ , it was bloody feck'in late, or early, or however you wanted to look at it) Mycroft Holmes was finally able to crawl (or rather, drop like a sack of rocks) into his bed after an hours-long, intensive deliberation among the most boring, tedious men in the country over matters that had already been talked to death ages ago, and once he was able to tune out the jackhammer-esque snoring of his silver-haired bed partner, eased into a fitful, reluctant sleep.

Which is why, at exactly 2:34 am, he was the first one to stir at the pitiful wailing that echoed down the halls. Without opening his eyes, Mycroft groaned and pulled his side of the duvet over his head, fully intent on ignoring it until it ran its course and wore itself out.

It took another three minutes and an increase in both volume and despair before he heard the man next to him snort himself awake. Greg Lestrade coughed and rolled onto his side, half-choking after being so abruptly woken. He partially rose up onto his elbow and stared into the dark room while his mind registered the noise; "...Is'sat Sherlock?" he eventually asked, voice still thick from sleep.

"Yes," Mycroft replied stiffly from underneath the blankets.

"Well, 'ow long's he been cryin'?"

"Long enough that he'll stop soon."

"Oi," Greg chided him, sitting up. "We can't jus' let 'im cry like that."

Almost as if he could sense he was being discussed, Sherlock's wailing grew more insistent, more mournful. Mycroft rolled onto his belly and pulled his pillow over his head, along with the duvet. "And why the hell not?" he asked wearily.

"Cause one, that's meanspirited; he's only a baby right now," Greg countered as he tossed back his blankets and got up. "And two, John will have your balls on a silver platter if he finds out you let Sherlock cry himself to sleep."

"As long as it's genuine silver," the buried man muttered.

"Smart arse." Greg moved across the room carefully, leaving the light off, and gathered up his robe. "Wouldn't be a problem if you'd've let me bring him to bed with us, like _I_ wanted."

There was a muffled snort (too derisive to be a snore) from underneath the indistinguishable mound of pillows.

Greg sighed; he knew most of his actually-quite-sentimental lover's attitude was sheer exhaustion, the results of an overly long, stressful day...he really was quite fond of his 'little' brother, and had proven himself several times to be as much of a coddler (if not more-so) as Greg was. "I'll take care of 'im, love...just go back to sleep," he said, patting the lump he assumed was Mycroft's bum as he passed by.

Mycroft only grunted in reply, already halfway back under the Sandman's spell.

Greg rubbed his eyes as he stumbled down the dimly lit hallway towards the makeshift nursery/guest room where Sherlock would be staying with them for the next three days, while John was out of town. He was spending the long weekend with his sister, in an effort to keep her sober while the latest in a long line of girlfriends packed her things and moved out. It was a mutual break-up, for once, but from the little John had told him of the situation, feelings were still hurt and tensions were high...which is exactly why it was _not_ the right environment for a clingy little detective to tag along, hence the sleepover with Uncle Greg and Mycroft.

The howling and crying hadn't let up by the time he'd reached the door despite My's claim that he'd "stop soon", save for a bout of hoarse coughing that made Greg's heart clench for the little guy. He opened the door, and stepped inside--

Thankfully, Mycroft had the foresight to leave a nightlight on in the form of a mini-planetarium, and it cast pale blue lights over the walls of the room in the shape of stars. There were still a few toys lying about the floor, with a small table and matching chair in the center, along with a row of short bookshelves crammed full of, you guessed it, childrens' books and even more toys.

And there, against the opposite wall, were the two largest pieces of furniture in the room: the changing table, and the crib.

And there in the crib, sitting up on his knees and holding onto the bars like a convict, was a very wrung-out little Sherlock, sobbing like he'd just watched someone kick his puppy.

Though it was wholly inappropriate considering the circumstances, Greg couldn't help but smile in spite of the heart-wrenching scene. "Aw, little lad..." he said gently, hurrying over. "What's the matter with you, huh?"

Sherlock started reaching for Greg the moment he laid eyes on him and, as soon as he stepped close enough, wrapped his arms around his neck and clung to him with the desperation of a drowning man. "D-da...D-da-ah--" he stuttered in between sobs, then broke down into another deep, horrid-sounding cough.

"Awww..." Greg held him close and thumped him on the back to help calm him...poor baby had really worked himself up! "Sh-sh-shh...just get your breath first, sweetheart," he murmured.

Now that he had the blessing of someone's attention and physical touch, it only took a minute or two for Sherlock to calm down considerably, going from open-mouthed wailing over Greg's shoulder, to frequent, hitching sniffles while lying against him, forehead pressed into the crook of his neck.

"There," Greg said warmly, switching from patting to rubbing his back, now that the lad was a bit more composed. "So, what had my best little boy so upset, hm? Did you have bad dreams?" He tilted his chin down to peer at the tear-stained face pressed to his chest.

Sherlock's chin dimpled, and his eyes welled up again. "D-dah, da-ddy," he whispered in the most heartbreaking way Greg had ever heard...the raspy little voice nearly had _him_ choking up, too. "Oh, bless," he cooed, and ran his fingers back though the little detective's unruly hair. "Did you wake up without Daddy and forgot where you were? Is that what scared you, big boy?"

Sherlock nodded weakly, while a stray tear rolled down his nose and dripped onto Greg's already-soaked shirt.

"He'll be back in a few days, love, I swear it!" Greg tried to console him, but Sherlock only buried his face into the man's chest and, from the pattern of warm breaths he felt huffing onto the wet patch on his shirt, started to cry again...or was trying to keep from crying more, one of the two.

Greg sighed; seeing Sherlock so...so _sad_ and vulnerable, it was killing him. "Hey," he said, nudging the little detective. "What if we call him first thing in the morning so you can talk to him--would that make you feel better?"

Sherlock tilted his head back and blinked up at the man with red-raw eyes, his lashes clumped together with tears. "Daddy?" he asked again, the corners of his mouth still turned down into a pout.

"Yeah, Daddy," Greg repeated--hey, his plan might just work, and everyone could end up getting a peaceful night's sleep!...well, what was left of the night. "What do you say, shall we give him a ring tomorrow?"

"...Now?" Sherlock asked hopefully, his eyes growing wide.

 _'Damn.'_ "No love, it'll have to be in the mornin'...Daddy's asleep right now, just like you should be." Greg tapped the little detective on the nose, but he had a moment of panic when his bottom lip began to wobble dangerously. "First thing, the _very_ first thing we'll do is call 'im and then you can talk as long as you want lad, I promise!" he said, trying to pump the brakes on anymore stropping. Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath, building up for another level ten alarm, and Greg had to think fast..."Hey, d'yah want to come watch a show with Uncle Greg, jus' you an' me, hm? Until it's time to call Daddy?" Hopefully, the little imp would succumb to exhaustion well before then... _hopefully_. Greg just had to keep him distracted in the meantime.

Sherlock sniffed and reached up to rub his eye with a balled-up fist. "W-watch?"

"Yeah, watch...c'mon, let's get you out of baby-jail and we'll find something on the tube."

"Y-y'ah," Sherlock agreed, nodding; the prospect of getting out of the crib was just as important (moreso, actually!) as the promise of watching television, and...well, he'd pretty much agree to _anything_ as long as it got him out of 'baby-jail'!

"Good lad!" There was no unit of measure accurate enough to describe just how relieved Greg was at successfully avoiding a continued meltdown. He was getting too goddamned old for this.

...At least, that's what he was telling himself before a certain, clingy little thing gripped part of his robe in a fist and leaned into him, then nuzzled one of the last dry spots on his shirt with a damp cheek.

Okay, who cared if he'd been jolted out of a deep sleep at three in the morning to tend to a fussy baby...that was cute as hell.

Greg smiled, kissed the top of Sherlock's head, then held onto his waist while he unlatched one side of the crib before switching arms and doing the same with the other side. "Are you a wet boy, too? Yes you are," he said, answering his own question by patting the little detective's backside and feeling the heavy padding shift under his hand. "No wonder you woke up in a state...I'd be cranky too, if I had to be stuck in a wet nappy!" he teased as he lifted Sherlock out of the crib and over to the changing table. "Can Uncle Greg change your bum, please?"

Sherlock nodded again and, once he'd been handed his plush bee (after Greg took forever and a day to figure out what he was pointing and babbling at...hey, it was still pretty dark in here, alright?!), laid down and began to suck on his thumb while patiently watching his appointed uncle change him.

"Such a good little man you are!" Sometimes, the contrast between Sherlock when he's 'little', especially the tiny sort-of 'little' like he was now, and when he's 'big' was so great that Greg could only marvel at it...well, marvel, and a substantial amount of gushing. " 'ey, Sherlock," he grinned as he cleaned him up. "...What's my name?"

Now that he'd been freed from that blasted baby-cage, Sherlock was noticeably more chipper. He smiled up at him, his eyes crinkling at the edges and sparkling, even in the dim light; "G'eg," he said, the thumb in his mouth making him slur, and the sweet little way he said it thrilled Greg to no end.

And the fact that being 'little' was the _only_ time Sherlock could remember his name played no small part of that thrill.

Greg chuckled and coated him down in a generous amount of baby powder. "Tha's right, Uncle Greg! And what's your brother's name?" It was just too cute to resist, and it seemed to be doing the trick of keeping Sherlock distracted.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the onslaught of sweet-smelling powder; "My'coff!"

Greg laughed and taped up the front of his nappy and, after making sure it fit nice and snug around his hips (John had warned him and Mycroft both beforehand that Sherlock was prone to taking off his nappy by himself if he became too warm), tugged the stretchy fabric of the mint-green onesie he was wearing down to refasten over it. "Listen to you, smart boy! Yes, Mycroft!"

The little detective giggled while he let Greg manhandle his lower half around, then stopped and peered up at him. "My'coff?" he asked, then looked towards the door.

 _'Crap.'_ "Mycroft's asleep, baby boy...he had a long, long day." Greg finished snapping the onesie in place, then helped Sherlock climb down from the table. "Ah'seep?" he peeped, watching his uncle wipe everything down and toss all the soiled items into the nappy bin.

"Yes, asleep, you little parrot." The older man used baby wipes to clean his hands last, tossed those away as well, then turned and scooped the younger one up and settled him on his hip. "Come along, then," he said, and planted a noisy kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

The little detective didn't protest (and who imagined that he would? One of the main selling points on staying with his brother for an entire three days was that he could be carried around as much as he wanted) and seemed content to chew on one of his bee's antennae, but once they began making their way down the hall to get to the kitchen, it was another story.

Greg didn't realize it, but Sherlock was paying attention to each door they passed, and waited for the exact moment they walked by his brother's room to..."My'coff!"

"Shh!" Greg shushed him quickly. Mycroft was a notoriously light sleeper...when he _did_ sleep.

"My'coff!"

"Shhh!"

"My'coff!"

_"Shhhh!"_

"MY'COFF!"

 _"Shhhhherlock, hush!"_ Greg hissed, and gave the little detective's backside a good swat as he hurried them out of the ridiculously long hallway.

Once they were past the line of bedrooms and headed towards the kitchen (Greg thought a nice, warm bottle might help Sherlock get back to sleep, not to mention he loved to hold him while giving him one), the detective inspector slowed back to a stroll and gave the little imp in his arms a bounce. But, instead of the mischievous giggling he was expecting to hear for a job well-done of aggravating his dear old Uncle, all Greg heard was more sniffling.

Oh, no.

Well, serves him right for bein' too optimistic and thinkin' they were in the clear.

Greg held onto him a little tighter, ignoring the strain in his upper arms, and picked up the pace again. At least the kitchen and the den were on the opposite side of the house, well out of hearing range for the bedrooms...but he hoped to avoid that little facet becoming necessary, anyway. "Aw, Sherlock...what's wrong?" he asked, patting the little boy's hip. "Didn't Uncle Greg cheer you up?"

Sherlock didn't answer him, but continued to sniffle and whimper in Greg's ear until they finally made it to the kitchen, where the older man sat him on the long, polished marble countertop (much to the relief of Greg's arms), next to the sink. Now Greg stood in front of him, hands holding onto his waist to keep him from taking a tumble, while Sherlock stared at him balefully, eyes shimmering with fresh tears. "Lord, I thought you'd've been dried up and empty by now," he teased softly, and reached out to tick the little detective on the chin. "Where'd that lovely big smile go,eh? Is he hidin'?"

Sherlock gave a hitching sniffle and went to wipe his nose with the back of his hand...he also muttered something, but between the teary voice and the stuffed bee he was holding onto for dear life blocking his mouth, Greg couldn't make heads nor tails of it. "What did'ja say, lad?" he asked, and gently moved the boys' hand out of the way. "Try again, there we go."

Sherlock pouted at him and the tears in his eyes continued to well up until they were threatening to spill over. "You got my leg," he whispered, hugging his bee to his chest.

At first, Greg didn't realize what he meant. "I did?!" he asked, bewildered...it was hard enough just to put the little guy in a time-out when needed (especially if Sherlock looked at him the way he was looking at him now; a sucker-punch to the heart, is what it was), let alone actually smack him!...wait.

Wait'aminute.

"Oh, lad...I'm sorry," Greg said, gathering him (and his bee) up in a great, big hug, and the little detective curled right in. "I just meant to get your bum's attention, not your leg...here, let me see." He gave Sherlock a quick kiss on the forehead, then took a step back so he could lift his leg and show him the barely-there pink mark on the back of his thigh, where the edge of Greg's fingertips caught him.

Greg had to bite his lip not to laugh...all this over a tap; how incredibly cute. Sad, but still cute. "Oh, no...would'ja look'it tha!" he said, feigning alarm, then added "...let's fix it right up!", before bending down and placing loud, exaggerated kisses all over the 'afflicted' area. A very surprised little Sherlock started to giggle, which is exactly what Greg wanted, and tried to push his head away; "No, no no no tickle!"

"Alright, alright," Greg chuckled, then stood up and gave Sherlock one last kiss on the cheek. "Feel better now?"

The little detective nodded and answered with a raspy-sounding "Y'ah," as he smiled at Greg over his bee.

The older man grinned and shook his head; he just couldn't get mad at the little guy. Exasperated at times, _hell_ yes, but never mad. "Good," he said, patting Sherlock on the hip. "Very good." He left his hand there and opened the cabinet to the right of the little detective's head, revealing a shelf full of bottles, sippy-cups, bibs, child-sized plates and utensils, and anything else that a toddler might possibly need for mealtime. Greg picked out a short, squat little bottle that had handles attached to the lid, and set it on the counter. "I'm sorry I swatted you, baby boy, but didn't I tell you that Mycroft was asleep?"

Sherlock, having taken back to sucking on his bee's antennae again (poor thing was getting rather frayed after serving as a comfort gesture for all these years), had now let go and turned to watch what Greg was doing. He pouted, but he met Greg's gaze and nodded his understanding.

"See, Mycroft had a long, long day, sweetheart, and he was very, _very_ tired...sit still, please," Greg explained while he went about warming up a bottle of milk. "He needs to sleep, and it wouldn't have been very nice to wake him up yet." He set the bottle (minus the nipple part) in the microwave, set the timer, hit the button, and turned back to Sherlock while it ran. "Uncle Greg just wanted to get your attention, love...and I did, didn't I?" he asked, rubbing a bare little (okay, well...long) leg.

Sherlock listened (while still chewing on that bee...Greg really hoped he wasn't around for the day that thing finally fell off. He'd probably still be able to hear it, though, even if he was on the other side of the bloody country) with big, wide eyes, and nodded again.

Greg grinned...he was too damn cute! He really, _really_ wanted this weekend to go well, and had sworn to John up and down that he and Mycroft would take phenomenal care of the little detective, because he really, _really_ wanted more chances to babysit in the future. "I bet it did!" he chuckled, reaching out to pinch a rosy cheek.

Sherlock pulled away with a squeal, mouthful of plushy and all, and wrinkled his nose at him.

"Cute lil' bugger, yes you are! And you know it!" Greg laughed, just as the microwave beeped. As he fetched it out and tested the temperature with a finger, Sherlock reached for it, fingers grasping at air. "Mine, p'eashe?!" he asked, wiggling impatiently and letting his bee fall from his mouth.

"Just a minute, bruiser...sheesh!" Greg chuckled, and screwed on the cap with its handles. It was more than obvious why anyone who ever had the privilege of meeting 'Little' Sherlock was instantly enamoured...the little guy was a charmer. "And sit still before you fall and crack your head open, please an' thank you!"

Having just narrowly escaped a bottom-warming (at least in his eyes) a mere few minutes before, Sherlock was quick to do as he was told and sat still...or rather, tried to. The wiggling stopped, sure, but then an impatient little padded bottom started bouncing, instead. "Mine _p'ease?!_ Now?!"

Greg preferred the former. "Lad, please--" he started to say, turning back to the little detective, bottle in hand...just in time to see Sherlock's bee bounce right out of his lap and take a very short flight straight to the floor. He stopped bouncing and leaned over, peering down at his fallen friend; "Uh-oh!" he piped up.

Greg suddenly felt very, very tired. So tired. Extremely tired. "I'll show you 'uh-oh'," he muttered and put a hand against Sherlock's chest in order to keep him from falling flat on his face and dashing any hopes left for a peaceful night. He stooped down with a grunt and snagged the toy by one crinkly wing, then handed it back to the little guy.

Sherlock hugged it to his chest as if he hadn't seen it in years, then beamed up at Greg and gave him an equally bright "F'ank'oo!"

...Greg forgot why he'd even felt tired in the first place. He chuckled and, with a burst of renewed energy, scooped Sherlock off the counter, remembering at the last second to hook one of the bottle's handles with his pinkie finger. "You little rotter...rotter, rotter, rotter!" he said, kissing his clammy little cheek each time, making him giggle. "A rotten rotter, just like your Daddy said!"

The giggles stopped almost immediately and Sherlock sat up, staring at Greg intently. "Daddy?" he asked. "My Daddy? Daddy now?"

 _'Crap.'_ "Not yet, love...soon though, I promise!"

The little detective's face fell. "Oh," he said quietly, and laid his head on Greg's shoulder.

Now, Greg was always the first (and loudest) person to say that he had a big mouth, along with the habit of sticking his foot deep in it at the most inopportune times, but he'd never regretted it more than he did right now. "I know, sweetheart," he sighed, and started to carry him towards the adjacent den. "Won't be much longer now, though."

Sherlock nodded sadly, while sucking away on the two middlemost fingers of his right hand.

Greg glanced down at him, and raised an eyebrow; "...Didn't you have a dummy earlier?" Actually, the little guy had had one on his mouth, one in each hand, and another clipped to his onesie (which Greg was just now noticing was gone, as well...some inspector he was!), but you know...splittin' hairs, here.

The little detective frowned, causing the space right between his eyes to crease. "My'coff take."

"Oh he did, did he? Well, we'll just have to have a talk with him tomorrow." Greg was not impressed. Having a dummy (or three, or four) wasn't doin' any harm, and you don't go takin' things from babies like that--you just don't.

Little as he was, Sherlock could still hear the shift in Greg's tone and sat up to look at him, intrigued. "My'coff, trouble?"

Greg smirked and tapped one of the touch-sensitive lamps on the small end table near the entrance to the room with his elbow, throwing a faint blue glow in that corner, similar to Sherlock's nightlight in the nursery (Mycroft was not a fan of too-bright lights, and had limited the amount of them installed throughout his house...and after spending most of his working days in a building full of buzzing flourescents, Greg saw the difference as a relief), and sat the bottle next to it. "Maybe," he said, plopping Sherlock down on the overstuffed leather couch next to them, and then started to search for all the different remotes they needed for one blasted telly.

Sherlock crawled to the other end of the couch, giggling...Greg had no idea what he was doing, other than going for the sake of being on the 'go'. "My'coff, time-out?" he asked cheekily.

Greg caught a slender ankle and tugged him back; "Sherlock time-out, if he doesn't sit still," he answered dryly. Now, where was the feckin'--ah, there it is! No, wait...that's the one for the Roku or Voo-doo or How-de-do, whatever it was bloody called. Where's the one that just turns it _on_ , for Christ'sakes?!?

Just as Greg was getting down onto his knees to look under the couch ('cause where else would it be?!) when the long, black remote he was searching for was thrust right under his nose. He flinched back, startled, then looked up to see Sherlock giving him a big, lopsided grin. "Fine' it!" he said proudly.

"Yes, yes you did," Greg said, willing his heart to stop pounding...he hadn't been _that_ surprised. He took it from him, then hauled himself back up onto the couch with a grunt and pulled Sherlock into his lap. Even when regressed to an infant, the little guy was always one step ahead. "Perfect little finder, you are," he added with a quick kiss to his cheek, then went about turning everything on, getting past menus, and turning the volume down low. "Now help Uncle Greg find something to watch."

Sherlock reached for the remote, but was thwarted when Greg handed him the bottle instead. "Ah-ah, you can tell me what you want to watch, but I do the clicking, little man," he said, settling back into the plush cushions. The little detective pouted, but gripped the handles on his bottle with both hands and leaned back against Greg, frowning at the screen while he drank.

Greg smirked and ruffled the hair on Sherlock's huffy, fluffy little head, then clicked straight over to the childrens' programming. "How about this one?" he asked, clicking over to Peppa Pig...everyone loved Peppa!

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

Okay, maybe not everyone. Greg went to the next show; "This one?"

"Nn-nn!" Sherlock grunted, and shook his head again.

Onto the next, then. "This one? This looks cute, yeah?"

Sherlock grunted...again.

The older man rubbed his hand over his face--it had already been a long night, and was looking to be longer, still. "What about this one?"

And so it went: click, grunt, shake. Click, grunt, shake. Click. Grunt. Shake. Click. Grunt. Shake. Wash, rinse, repeat, ad nauseam until Greg had clicked past every single kiddie show AND movie, and Sherlock had refused every. single. one. "Give your Uncle a break, lad...please?" he pleaded. "Pick something!"

Sherlock, without taking his gaze from the screen, simply held out his hand for the remote.

 _'Little shit.'_ Greg was too tired to argue. "Here," he said, defeated, and handed it over. Sherlock grinned widely around the nipple held in his mouth and started to flick through the titles so fast that it made Greg's vision go funny. He blinked to clear it up, and when he opened his eyes to look at the screen again, he realised that not a single title from the list that was casually being perused was recognizable.

Wait, no...there was at least one there that he knew; an old American crime show from the early 90's that a friend had sent him ages ago...and yeah, that next one sounded familiar too, another 'true crime' drama! How was Sherlock findin' these...? "How--?!"

"My'coff," Sherlock offered as explanation, while grinning broadly around his bottle.

"Tha's the answer to everything, in'nit?" Greg rubbed his hand over his face--he was starting to fade, and fast. "Pick somethin', little love."

He listened to another hurried frenzy of clicking, then a pause, followed by one more final-sounding click. There was a short window of silence while the show loaded...until the most god-awful synthesized xylophone from the eighties (that should have _stayed_ in the eighties) began to play. He moved his hand and was not-at-all surprised to see bright neon laser graphics shooting across the screen, followed by a greying man in a brown trench introducing the show with a matching graveled voice that sounded like he must have been a two-pack a day man way back when, describing the upcoming stories of mystique, murder, and missing persons.

"...and I'll be your host, Robert Stack. Welcome, to Unsolved Mysteries."

Greg gave a dry laugh; "You would, wouldn't you?" he asked, pinching Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock, however, paid him no mind. He sat staring at the screen, enraptured by the cheesey, poorly reenacted scenes playing out while he held his bottle up (the remote had already been abandoned again, sacrificed to the Gods of the Couch Cushions) and remembered to take a long drink every now and then.

Greg shook his head and smiled...his little nephew was a ham. An adorable, clingy little ham, but still a ham. He laid his head back and had Sherlock do the same, making him lie back against his chest with the hopes of getting him comfortable enough to go drift back to sleep. After a quick kiss on the cheek, the (exhausted) inspector settled in to watch the show.

But he hadn't counted on Sherlock being so _enthralled_! He would stare, wide-eyed and unblinking at the screen, hanging onto the husky-voiced narrators' every word as he talked the audience through one 'unsolved mystery' (granted, most of this episodes' 'mysteries' were missing persons cases) after another. And as god-awful as the acting was, the little detective was still so invested that he seemed to completely forget the bottle planted in his mouth, until Greg would give him a little nudge that would set off a flurry of quick-sucking noises, making him chuckle.

As precious as it was that such a hokey, ridiculous show could hold Sherlock's attention, the same could _not_ be said for Greg, and it wasn't long before he started having the strangest issues with his eyelids--for some reason ( a little curly-headed, nappy-wearin' reason), they suddenly weighed as much as sandbags, and refused to stay open. He would nod off and then catch himself, head drooping, and the show would be on a totally different 'case' with Sherlock just as wide awake as ever.

Greg groaned; he didn't even want to think about what time it must be by now. "C'mon, little boy," he said, going to put his feet up so he could stretch out flat--hey, if he had to be up and out of bed at this hour, then he was at least going to get relaxed. He lay back against the plush armrest and moved to bring Sherlock with him; maybe making him lie down too would help get him sleepy. "Get cozy with Uncle Greg."

Sherlock, however, didn't share the sentiment. He grunted and planted his hands on top of Greg's chest, pushing against the persistent hand pressing at his back. "No!" he cried, dropping his bottle in the process. "Nononononono _no_ , no down!"

"Yes yes yes, down," Greg said calmly...Sherlock had already proven to be in a sensitive state, and in spite of (or because of) the way he was behaving now, he knew the little guy was just overtired and cranky. He took one of the hands pushing at him by a thin wrist and moved it out of the way while still applying firm pressure to the little detective's back. "Now see, Sherlock can either listen an' have a cuddle with Uncle Greg, OR, he can go back in his crib an' sleep there."

"No no no no NO!...up G'eg, up!"

"Shhh...those are the only two choices, lad. Take it or leave it." Greg silently wished for him to 'take it'--he didn't want to put Sherlock back in the crib, not after having such a rough night already, but he _would_ , if needed be.

Sherlock stopped shoving and glared down at Greg...but just as the man was preparing for the world class strop he thought was coming his way, the little detective gave up and collapsed on top of his chest with a frustrated sob.

Greg let him lay there and have a bit of a cry while he patted his back. Sherlock was tired, out of his element, and was missing John something fierce...of _course_ he was going to be a little wretch to deal with, and Greg didn't blame him. He would have to have a talk with Mycoft in the morning. "Shhh, I know, lad," Greg hummed, burying his nose in Sherlock's thick, curly hair and kissing the top of his head. "I know...it's all just too much, in'nit?"

Sherlock lifted his head, and it pained Greg to see him so frazzled and done in, with puffy, sore-lookin' eyes and their bruised, exhausted lids. "Up, G'eg...up p'ease?" he pleaded one more time, and Greg nearly, _nearly_ gave in.

Nearly, but not quite. He shook his head; "No, baby...Sherlock needs to stay right like this."

Sherlock's chin wobbled and he lay his head back onto Greg's chest, where the older man could feel him heaving with repressed sobs. He sighed; "God, you're so _tired_ ," he said, rubbing his hand up and down along Sherlock's spine. "Here, we'll leave the show on, love...how about that?" The little detective nodded, and Greg patted his bum. "Good lad...now, where's the remote?" He should have looked before lying down, but oh well--if's and but's, and all that. He did reach for Sherlock's bottle, though, and realised rather quickly what the blunt object that was poking him in the arse must be. "That answers that," he grunted, switching the bottle to his other hand and lifting his bum up just long enough to reach underneath and grab it. "Whew, that was a chore and a half, wadn'it?" he chuckled; maybe he could get Sherlock to laugh, giggle, maybe just crack a smile, somethin'!

Sherlock only blinked and sniffled up at him.

"Well, I tried," Greg muttered, then started the next episode that was listed. When the opening theme started playing, Sherlock's attention was once again distracted and, slowly but surely, he began to calm down. The older man sighed quietly...he was trying his best, really, but he knew that he just wasn't the same as having 'Daddy' here. After the remote was set down on the coffee table, the bottle traded hands again and Greg shook it, gauging how much was left; a little more than a third, plenty enough to get through this episode. He tapped the nipple against Sherock's lips, waiting for him to latch on, and rubbed it lightly along the bottom one when he didn't take to it right away.

"Good lad," Greg murmured when he finally did, and kissed Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock made a noise of agreement in the back of his throat, then tucked his arms (bee and all) close to his chest, snuggling into Greg.

Greg chuckled; "Glad you agree," he humoured, and put his arm over Sherlock's back, patting him with the hope that he'd fall asleep soon...he was _so_ close,it would have to be before the show was over! After all, Greg himself wasn't going to last much longer either, and he'd be damned if he was going to drift off first and leave a fussy infant to roam the house all alone.

Both John _and_ Mycroft would hand him his arse for that.

Greg closed his eyes (just for a moment, just for a rest...he wasn't going to sleep) and listened to the host's voice droning on and on--intermittent with canned gunshots and lackluster screams during the crime skits--while he held Sherlock's bottle for him. Whenever he felt the little detective grow still and heavy, he would crack an eye open and peer down to check if he'd finally lost the battle with the Sandman; twice, he caught him with his eyes closed and mouth slack, but as soon as Greg went to put the bottle down, those eyes would flutter open and he would begin suckling again, despite it being almost empty by now.

Greg figured it couldn't take more than another ten minutes (if that, even!) for Sherlock to crash completely, if he could just keep still and let him...so, the detective inspector closed his eyes again, and waited.

*******

When Greg woke up, he had a moment where he felt just as disoriented as Sherlock must have felt upon waking up in a strange crib, in an equally strange nursery; the room had gone dark and silent, and for a moment, he thought he was back in bed.

At least he would have if it hadn't been for the softly snoring companion sleeping on his chest. _'Ah, right--not in bed.'_ Mycroft had never been this much of a cuddler, anyway.

Greg blinked against the darkness, allowing his eyes to adjust until he could start to make out shapes. Yes, they were still in the den, and judging from how dark it still was, he hadn't been asleep for long. The telly being off confused him, but he figured that it must have been the timer on it that shuts it off after being inactive for x-amount of minutes.

Now, he considered his snoozing bundle.

Sherlock was finally deeply asleep--well and truly conked-out. How could Greg tell, you ask? After so many failed attempts, how did he know that this time was real, for certain? Because, the little detective was now totally dead weight...dead weight that was resting directly on top of Greg's very full bladder.

This...was going to take some careful maneuvering.

Greg held on to Sherlock and put a cautious foot down on the floor, then slowly sat up while keeping a watch on his sleeping face. About a fourth of the way up, Sherlock murmured a noise that may or may not have been an actual word, his forehead creasing with an unsettled expression, and Greg froze. Stock still. Like a statue. Did NOT move a muscle. But after a few tense moments, he watched as the little detective's forehead smoothed out, and Greg let out the breath he'd been holding as he sank back onto the couch.

Well, that wasn't going to work. And another thought occurred to Greg: carrying a sleeping adult was _very_ different from carrying a wide-awake one that could help by holding on. Even if he'd been able to get him up without waking him, how in the hell did he plan on getting him back into bed? He couldn't have, that's how. Sherlock would have woken right up, and the night would have started all over again...this time, with the added element of irritated older brother getting involved.

Greg also had another problem, one that had woken him up in the first place: he needed the toilet. He needed the toilet _really_ bad. And Sherlock's sleeping form was literally pressing _directly_ on top of his now-aching bladder.

"...Shit."

No sooner than the last syllable left his lips, the lamp near his head flicked on, blinding him momentarily (and nearly ruining Mycroft's couch). Though the lighting was soft, the source was still close enough to make his dark-adjusted eyes burn, and he blinked against it while trying to shield his face with his hand.

"We've discussed swearing around the child, Gregory."

"Nothin' he hasn't heard before," Greg grumbled, peeking between his fingers as his lover slipped by and sat on the coffee table next to them. " 'sides, he's asleep."

"Even so, best not to fall into the habit," Mycroft replied, and reached out to gently take the empty bottle from Sherlock's grip. "He's always been a fighter," he murmured.

Greg grunted; "Tell me 'bout it...took me hours to get him to crash."

"Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not! Took forever, it did!"

Mycroft crossed his legs and clasped his hands over his knee, the bottle dangling from one finger by the handle. "It took you an hour and forty-nine minutes."

Greg lifted his hand out of the way, and stared at the man. "You're kidding."

"I do not 'kid'. You've only been asleep for twenty."

"How do--" Greg narrowed his eyes, and it wasn't necessarily because of the light. "How do you know that?"

Mycroft gave a little shrug of his shoulders. "I was watching the cameras, of course."

Of course. "And just how long were you watching me struggle, lovey?"

One side of Mycroft's upper lip curled into a sneer...he hated ridiculous pet names, and Greg knew that. From experience. His mouth opened, a withering, biting remark already loaded at his tongue, when Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath that ended with a whimper, and the older brother's expression softened. He sighed; "Since I heard my name being called...repeatedly," he said, and gently brushed the hair back from the little detective's forehead. "You had everything under control; there was no reason to intervene."

Greg certainly had more to say in regards to that, but the look on Mycroft's face made him reconsider...all of that could wait until morning.

There _was_ one matter that couldn't wait, though. "Well, help get'im off'a me, would you? Before you need to replace the couch, preferably."

After a brief, somewhat snippy exchange about the exact mechanics of achieving said feat, it appeared that the shortest, simplest way to get Sherlock up-and-off of Greg and into Mycroft's arms, would be to wake him up...just marginally, though. They were going to have to skirt this carefully.

They took the little detective's legs and eased them to the floor, so that when Greg sat up, Sherlock was sitting sideways in his lap. Mycroft stood and, with the inspector's help, tried lifting the overgrown tyke into his arms. But even in his sleep ( _especially_ in his sleep), Sherlock did not appreciate being jostled around, no matter how gentle it was, and was quick to make it known. All the movement roused the little guy and he stretched, his eyes blinking awake, and started to fuss.

Shit. Shit, shit shit shit shit...shit. Tits. Greg had known this was a bad idea. "Just put him back, Myc..." he sighed, defeated. Guess he was just going to have to hold it for the next three or four hours and pretend that he didn't feel his back teeth floating.

"Shush," the other man replied. Greg thought he was talking to him, at first (might still have been), until Mycroft reached into the pocket of his robe and and produced a vividly purple dummy, which he then popped right into Sherlock's snuffling mouth before scooping him up and balancing him on his hip in one fluid motion.

Almost instantly, as soon as he realised what was in his mouth and who had him bundled up, the little detective went quiet and laid his head on his brothers' shoulder, clinging to him like a little koala.

The speed of it all would have been hilarious, had Greg not already crossed over to the painful side of nearly pissing himself. But he could still scoff; "Oh, _sure_ , he goes right to sleep for _you_ , nevermind that I changed him, got him a bottle, and let him out of baby jail so he could watch telly, yeah, that makes a lot of sense."

Mycroft stared down his nose at him throughout the rant, his eyebrows raised, hands clasped under Sherlock's bum. "...Maybe _you_ should go sleep in the crib," he said, then turned on his heel and swept out of the room.

Greg watched them leave, mouth gaping, then fell back onto the couch to question his common sense about why **that** kind of sniping and venting had sounded like a good idea in his head!...but not for long, because he did have a mighty need for the toilet by now. He heaved himself up and briskly walked/trotted out of the room, through the kitchen, and down to the nearest bathroom which was right past the long hallway, where the main bedrooms were located. As he bounded past, he caught the quickest glimpse of Mycroft carrying Sherlock into their bedroom, then shutting the door behind them.

Greg sighed, then went on to take care of his business. He knew he was going to apologize for bein' a twat. And Mycroft knew it, too. And would be expecting it. And knowing _that_ , kinda made Greg not want to do it as much.

He would anyway, of course. Because he'd been wrong, and he knew he should.

...And because he wanted to sleep in the actual bed tonight. Morning. Whatever.

He washed his hands and, sure enough, when he entered the bedroom (quietly), he found Mycroft still up and waiting. His back was to the door and he was propped up on one elbow, watching Sherlock sleep.

Greg crossed over to his side of the bed and slipped into bed next to them.

"Careful," Mycroft whispered softly, his hand resting on Sherlock's chest...and Sherlock, the little fusspot, was lying flat on his back in between them, his breath slow and shallow, along with quick little flutters of his dummy every so often.

Good thing Mycroft had a Queen-size, the way he was splayed. Greg mirrored his lover and sat up on his elbow, as well. "He's a sweet wee thing, isn't he?" he asked, resting his cheek on his fist and grinning at him.

"He has his moments," Mycroft murmured...he wasn't quite willing to look at Greg just yet.

Ah, f'eck it, he'll just get it over with. "I'm sorry, love...it's been a long night. For all of us. I didn't mean to snap."

"Of course you did."

"Okay, maybe...but I feel like an arsehole for it."

"You _are_ an arsehole."

"But I'm _your_ arsehole."

Mycroft finally lifted his gaze away from his brother and peered up at Greg's cheesey grin. He rolled his eyes; "Yes, you're _my_ arsehole," he said in that self-suffering way of his.

Greg leaned over Sherlock and gave the other brother a kiss on the lips, then settled back. "You know, this had me thinking--"

"Oh dear."

"Shudd'up. It made me think, you know...it's incredible that there's still people who think havin' a baby fixes everythin', you know?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Hardly applicable in this particular situation, Gregory."

Greg snorted softly. "No, I know most babies aren't six feet tall--"

Mycroft snorted back.

Greg ignored him. "--Yeah, most aren't, but it's more fitting than you think."

"No, Gregory...it's not."

"Yes it _is_ , would you just--?!"

"It's not the same," Mycroft said again, that smooth-as-glass tone of voice letting Greg know he'd walked right into another verbal trap; "...because we know this one is going home in two days time."

Greg stopped, stared at him...then began to giggle. A not-too-often-seen smile played at Mycroft's lips and he moved to lay flat next to Sherlock, leaving a protective arm over him. "Don't you dare wake him up again, idiot."

Greg put a hand over his mouth to stifle himself, then waited until he pulled it together to slide down and join them. "What'd'yah think, love? Are we ready to start tryin' for one of our own?"

"Shut up and go to sleep."

"Yeah...yeah, you're right," Greg said, pulling the blankets up around him and Sherlock, with a soft kiss to the little guy's forehead...then, after a moment's consideration for his own safety and well-being, leaned over and did the same to Mycroft, who batted him away indignantly. "You've got an early morning ahead of you, anyway."

Silence. Then..."What are you blathering on about now?"

"Changed him in the nursery. Your turn next. Oh, and you'll be needin' to call John first thing in the mornin' and let Sherlock talk to him. Promised him."

There was a muffled groan. "Why in the hell did you do a stupid thing like that?"

"Crying. Had to do it."

"Bugger."

"Love you, too. Goodnight."

"Morning."

"Whatever."

*******

"...Did you get his bee?"

"..."

A sigh. "Did you at least turn off the lamp?"

"...Don't remember."

"I'll take that as a 'no'. Be a dear and go take care of that."

"Absolutely not."

Another sigh. "Stubborn prick."

"Look who's talkin', sweetheart."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"...Love you, too."

"Love you. Goodnight."

"Morning."

"What _ever_."


End file.
